


The Dark

by Yevynaea



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Wander Over Yonder (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Crossover, Fearlings (Guardians of Childhood), Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Nonbinary Wander, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Short One Shot, War, Worldbuilding, canon-typical nomadic tendencies, wander is very very old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevynaea/pseuds/Yevynaea
Summary: Wander remembers the war. He remembers lots of wars, actually, in lots of places, spanning years and years and years, but there’s one war in particular…well. He doesn’t like to think about it.(Or: the crossover in which Wander is a surviving refugee of the Fearling Wars.)
Kudos: 12





	The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> the first draft of this has been sitting in my google docs for like 3 years now, so i polished it up for y'all. enjoy

Wander remembers the war. He remembers lots of wars, actually, in lots of places, spanning years and years and years, but there’s one war in particular…well. He doesn’t like to think about it.

Before he was Wander, he was Tumbleweed, and they’ve had a lot of names, been called a lot of things-- _Kodie, Nashira, Here-and-There, Marigold, Zan, Sunshine, Tangerine, Farr, Sunflower, Awhina, Thistle, Hiker, Spoon, Nobody, weirdo, freak, nomad, friend, traveler, spirit--_ so many that it seems like it’d be hard to keep track, but they manage just fine. They remember things more clearly than most folk. The one thing they don’t remember-- the thing that bugs them, if they let themself stop moving long enough to think about it-- is what their name was during that war. The first war they ever lived through.

They remember shadows, alive and sharp and hungry, searching, consuming. They remember the screaming, different voices and different languages and wordless fear. They remember being small and being helpless, abandoned or left behind or lost (that’s the other detail that doesn’t stay steady, the bit their mind constantly confuses with nightmares and wishes and anxieties), and they remember being grabbed by the scruff of the neck and pulled up from the dusty ground.

“It’s alright, kit, I gotcha.” A voice, unfamiliar, and a uniform, rumpled and torn. They remember their heart beating too-fast and too-loud, their fur matted but standing on end in fear, as they’re tucked close to the stranger’s chest. They remember feeling safe, for just a moment. Then they remember being jostled as the stranger runs, and they remember the hiss-scratch-shriek of the fearlings catching up. They remember more screaming, closer now than before, and then too-loud-too-close, above them, and then they’re falling from the stranger’s now-limp arms.

They remember being small and being helpless, abandoned or left behind or lost and there are shadows hissing clawing screeching there are shadows--

\--and there is light, blinding and burning before it begins to fade. It forces them to blink away spots as they glance up, looking around for fearlings that aren’t there anymore.

“Hello?” they squeak, as their vision clears. There isn’t an immediate reply, but there is a figure, looming at the center of the fading light, and they hiss indignantly as it bends to grab them by the scruff. Dangling, they can only stare at the newcomer; the bright gold eyes, the tall black hair, the star-white sword, the sad expression.

They remember being lifted to the new stranger’s shoulder, hanging for dear life to his uniform collar and dark hair (both covered in ash and what must be blood, though they don’t know where it might have come from) as he moved through what was left of their home, through the ruins of a now-silent town, toward a ship waiting out in the moorlands.

“General! Any survivors?” a Pooka asks, when they’re still far from the craft. Her ears are twitching, one of her feet is tapping agitatedly against the ground.

“Just this one, so far.” They remember him grabbing them again, holding them out, dropping them into the Pooka’s waiting arms. They remember her catching them, holding them close so as not to drop them, as the General turns on his heel and walks back into the smoke and the rubble.

They were still small when the first Fearling Wars ended, but they remember it. They remember _that_ , death and screaming and shadows and light, and golden eyes in a solemn face.

(They remember not completely understanding that they are the only one left. They would not come to understand that for years.)

When they’re grown-- or grown enough-- they shed names like some species shed skin. They travel and travel and travel, always moving, and never thinking about why. They know if they stop to think about it, it’ll give them too much time to remember. With every new name comes a new life, and with every new life, a new galaxy, or a new dimension, and they try not to think about complicated concepts like _home_.

Between two names, they hear about the end of the Fearling Wars. They hear about death and destruction, the extinction of the Lunanoffs and the genesis of Pitch Black, a now-empty prison and a ship-turned-moon orbiting a little blue planet, somewhere out in time-space-dimensions. They hear these things from an elder, with an old medal hanging on her wall, bearing the insignia of the House of Ceremont. Still loyal to a crown far off and long dead. She’s far from home, just like them. She ruffles their hair, pinches their cheek, thanks them for carrying her shopping home for her, and calls them _nashira. Helper._ They like the sound of that.

They help and help and help, and travel and travel and travel, and they still never stop to let themself think about why. And they don’t let themself be afraid of almost anything or anyone. “ _An enemy is just a friend you haven’t made yet,”_ because no other enemy is quite like a swarm of shadows-- alive, empty, hungry, searching, consuming.

_Home_ becomes people who care, people who help them right back, people who keep them in check and on track. _Home_ is a hundred galaxies and a thousand planets, and they create themself in each. They are three hundred names over three dozen centuries, worlds and peoples blurring in their memory the longer they go on. But the universe keeps providing, keeps giving them _more._ More to do, more to see, more planets to visit, more beauty to appreciate. More people to help.


End file.
